She blinked. The ceiling was different.
Soft beige. No cracks. No water stains. And most importantly—heated floors.
She sat up slowly, her eyes adjusting to the light pouring in through the large windows. Outside, the snow had stopped, and everything sparkled with a quiet kind of luxury.
For a second, she forgot where she was.
Then she saw the robe draped over the armrest—embroidered with the Cha family crest—and remembered.
She'd officially become a live-in parasite.
Haekyung's room.
Well, not exactly his room. She'd stayed on his couch. Like a respectable guest. One who came with a pink neck pillow and zero shame.
She stretched, yawned, and shuffled to the door barefoot. A hotel-grade breakfast better be waiting or she was going to charge him emotional distress.
She padded into the living room, and sure enough—
There he was.
Cha Haekyung. Perfectly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled up, a black coffee in one hand and her requested almond croissants on the table. As if this were normal. As if hosting her overnight was just another part of his morning routine.
"You're awake," he said without looking up from his tablet.
"No thanks to you," she yawned. "I dreamed about being poor again. It was traumatic."
"You are poor."
"Rude. But fair."
She walked straight to the table, pulled out a chair, and reached for the croissant with both hands. No pretense, no manners. Just the hunger of a woman who'd tasted luxury and decided she'd never go back.
"So," she said between bites. "About this new room you promised me."
"I already gave the order to have it remodeled."
Her eyes widened. "Already?"
"I chose soft beige for the walls. Heated floors. Private bathroom. Closet with built-in lighting."
"Stop, you're going to make me fall in love."
"You say that like you haven't already."
She choked on her croissant.
Haekyung calmly handed her a glass of water without looking up from his tablet.
"You can't just say things like that," she coughed. "Without warning. There should be a signal or something. A flash of light. A dramatic soundtrack."
"Noted."
"I mean, you're being very aggressive for someone who's never even confessed."
"I don't need to confess."
"You don't?"
"You're already here."
She stared at him.
Most guys—rich or not—played games. Flirted, teased, kept their distance. Haekyung didn't. He was straight lines and clear intent. No frills. No drama.
And no confusion.
That, more than anything, was dangerous.
Because even if she clung to him for money, even if she joked about being a parasite—there was a part of her that had always wondered:
What if he wanted her for real?
What then?
"I'm serious," he said quietly. "Move in. Officially. I'll have the papers drawn up."
Yoori blinked. "You want a *contract*?"
"Of course."
"I'm not a business merger, Haekyung."
"You're more important than one. That's why I want it in writing."
She stared at him.
This man. This stupid, absurd man.
"You are so weird."
"Thank you."
She exhaled. "Fine. But I get to set the terms."
His brow arched slightly. "Go on."
"Clause One," she said, lifting a finger. "Unlimited access to your fridge."
"Done."
"Clause Two: Birthday and Christmas gifts must exceed 500,000 won in retail value. No socks."
"Accepted."
"Clause Three: You must act as my fake boyfriend if I ever need to intimidate a debt collector or win an online argument."
Haekyung finally looked up, one brow raised. "Fake?"
She ignored that.
"Clause Four," she continued. "You'll help me find a part-time job that pays well and lets me nap."
"You don't need a job."
"I do. It's about dignity."
"You sold that last week for bubble tea."
"Fair point."
He leaned back in his chair, long fingers tapping against the tablet. "Clause Five?"
Yoori leaned in. "You never, ever fall in love with me."
The room stilled.
Haekyung didn't blink.
"Too late," he said.
And just like that, she lost whatever upper hand she thought she had.